


Another Man's Sin

by Hyena_Poison



Series: Bellwether Sons [2]
Category: True Detective
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 09:37:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1546166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyena_Poison/pseuds/Hyena_Poison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You move to lean on the counter, watch him as he stares at pictures on the wall, sketches and news clippings; you study it, memorizing him standing there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Man's Sin

You slamming him against a locker at the station? That’s business. When you press him to the wall of his empty house, it’s something else altogether. He’s not wired, threatening to break your thumbs; he’s just foggy and warm and his fingers pull at your shirt. Your arm still pressed against his throat, you kiss him; knock your teeth into his, share the bourbon on your tongue. 

He pushes you off, leaves you to watch him move toward the bed, stripping off his shirt. Rust’s neat, organized, and the way he throws his shirt and belt to the floor, leaves his pants where he steps out of them, does it for you. On the edge of the mattress, he sits and waits while you work the buttons of your shirt; pupils blown, eyes dark and thirsty watching your fingers move. You shrug the fabric off your shoulders, let it drop to the carpet as you walk over. Run fingers over his scalp to the base of his neck, soft curls under your palm. He doesn’t fight as you pull him closer, doesn’t look away as he slips your belt loose. Holds your eyes while his teeth pull your zipper down. 

Rust isn’t a tease—intentionally vague and confusing, sure, but not when they’re doing whatever this is. A trait you find more and more endearing as he drags down your pants and underwear, takes you in his mouth. And it’s wet and hot and fuck, the things Rust does with his tongue makes your legs shake, your breath hitch. Deeper, deeper, all you can think, drag him forward until you hit the back of his throat. Rust gags, and fuck if that doesn’t set off a slow burn in your belly. 

Sharp pain in your wrist, Rust yanking your hand off the back of his neck, and you gasp from the ache and the sudden loss of his mouth. He breathes, just inches from you, something like a warning in his eyes. And you’re having trouble focusing, not making stupid fucking noises, because Jesus, his lips are red and shiny with spit, and you just want to rub yourself over that mouth. Like he knows what you’re thinking, he runs his tongue over them, something too dirty to be a smirk sets lines in the corners of his eyes. 

You take the hint, don’t touch his head again, clench sweaty palms against your thighs for a lack of something better to do. You don’t hear anything, just feel that live-wire vibration from the back of his throat, because god-forbid he let anyone know he’s getting anything out of this. Open your eyes, watch his hand jerk under his briefs, feel him staring back up at you; and who fucking knows why, but you really want to see. See the way his hand moves over himself, the red of flushed skin. See what you do to him. Balance on one foot, use the other to tug at the fabric of his briefs; he gets the idea, presses a hand to your thigh and slips off his last bit of clothing. 

Long fingers over hard skin, hair darker than the sun-bleached curls you want to grip—and you give in and do, and Rust can break all your fucking bones and it’d be worth it. The long line of his neck, muscles moving as he works you. You see and feel him swallow, pull his hair harder and he grazes you with his teeth; Jesus, you whine and buck, and Rust gags again. Your eyes go up his body—angles and bones and tense muscle—to his neck and jaw, to his lips stretched around you. To his eyes, half-closed and locked on yours. You drag him forward by his hair, and Rust lets you press his face as close as you can get it. Like a fucking thunderclap, you come, bent and hands braced on Rust’s shoulders; you can feel him shake, leaning hard against you as he follows.

Shit, but you need to sit down before you collapse on him; use the hands on his shoulders to shove him flat on the mattress, and fall heavy beside him. Panting, the air hot as dense in your lungs, try to breathe; Rust moves, grabs his shirt from the floor, uses it to wipe off his stomach and hands, throws it at you as he drops back onto the bed. 

Afterwards, you usually watch him, still catching your breath and sweating. He’ll grab a book or a file or that fucking ledger of his, reading without the modesty of sheets or clothing. He’ll sit flipping through pages and pictures until you’ve recovered enough to leave; you never stay the entire night, and you’re not sure what’d happen if you try. Rust doesn’t sleep, not with you here and not with you in his bed. He’ll sleep in the fucking car, crammed up on the door but not in his own bed with you. And you’re not sure what that means, that you can kiss and fuck someone but not sleep next to them, not talk to them until the next day. 

You try sometimes, after, to talk to him and you’re not really sure why you bother. Mostly, it pisses him off, gets him riled up in a way you find oddly satisfying. He’ll tell you to go fuck yourself, and you get to remind him exactly who’s taken care of that already. And then Rust leaves, goes to the kitchen or the bathroom until you’re gone. If he’s in one of his moods, he’ll just get up, won’t even say a word back. 

Just watch him read instead, the way his lips move every now and then, words and ideas that you can’t give a single fuck about. And you’re not sure what you’re feeling, something that sets your stomach a little sour, that makes you try again tonight. You roll onto your side, elbow holding you up as you face him. It’s every day stuff, nothing heavy or important. Strictly vanilla shit. You tell him about breakfast, how it was your turn to get the girls ready for school, how you don’t know shit about what socks to wear with which skirt, or how to do hair. 

“So she asks me to do some kinda braid,” Rust’s already shut his book, staring at the wall like meditation as you continue, “And I don’t fuckin’ know where to start, so I told her to ask Maggie—”and Rust is gone, off the bed and into the kitchen like you’d told him it’s on fire. And you can’t really feel bad about it, not when you’re staring at his ass as he walks away. You don’t get it, what the fuck his problem is; he can talk your ear off about the craziest shit you’ve ever heard, but you can’t say a goddamn thing about something that’s real. About life outside of case files and perps and those hours driving through bayou country. 

Funny thing, feeling guilty for another man’s sins. Not that you don’t feel it, not that you aren’t aware of what you’re doing. You know what this could do to your family, to Maggie, what this would do to your career. But when you’re boneless and warm and pressed close to Rust, you can’t feel much of anything. Fuck, it’s doesn’t have to be Rust necessarily, you’d be just as happy with a nice pair of tits. And you could have pussy whenever you want; it’s never been much of a challenge for you. Yet again and again, you end up at Rust’s fucking empty house instead, on his bed or against his kitchen counter—alcohol-fuzzy memories move around your head, making you wish you were a younger man. 

You’re not lying to yourself, here. Good men don’t do these things, don’t hurt the people that are important to them. Good men don’t get shit-faced and fuck other men. You provide for your family, you take care of them, give them a good life and that has to count for something. You love Maggie and the girls—not the other women, you’ve never cared like that about them. You sure as shit don’t love Rust, don’t really even like him, and that messes with your head, trying to figure what exactly this gets you. What kind of need this fills. 

Rust says he’s not a good man, so you’re not really sure why he’s got this guilt complex going. Maybe he’s dealing with his own shit, because there’s no shortage of that in his fucking abortion of a life; and you’re not going to touch that, no matter what you’re doing together. You thought at first that maybe it’s because he’s screwing a man; then you realize Rust probably couldn’t give a fuck. He doesn’t question it—has questions for everything else in this goddamn world, but not this. He’s like liquid and smoke, slipping into any shape, through any crack—just adjusting to anything the world pitches at him like some fucked-up survival thing. Like Rust is the first motherfucker to crawl onto land, look around at all those weird-ass plants and shit and tells himself, “Sure, okay”. 

So fuck Rust and the stupid times he decides to grow a conscience. Like he has any right to feel guilty over this, like he can throw this back in your face. And you fucking hate him for it, for that guilt and shame about lying to your family. Your family, not Rust’s. So why the fuck does he care what you do with it? Having a few dinners with them doesn’t make him part of their lives. 

You want to hit him, bloody his fucking face, press your fingers into his throat until that judgment leaves his eyes. Until you remind him he’s not above this, not apart from this. He is this, and so are you, and there’s no arguing or pretending or fucking guilty consciences that will separate Rust from that. 

But you see him in the kitchen, light from the hall lending shadows to his features, lines of fatigue and the heavy weight of awareness. He’s settled deep into that fucking dark place, and you meet his eyes with something like reluctance. Anger dies, and your shoulders sag with it’s leaving; for a second, you see him clear through all that bullshit—tired, a desert remoteness, like he’s been wandering for years in that emptiness, and it had sunk into him like crooked nails. But it’s gone as soon as you recognize it, just his blank face and red-rimmed eyes.

You move to lean on the counter, watch him as he stares at pictures on the wall, sketches and news clippings. You study it, memorizing him standing naked there, smoke sliding from his nose and lips, devils-traps on the table behind him. 

Cigarette between his fingers, Rust says, “It’s late.” Drawl heavy, voice just above a whisper, and you almost believe he’d sleep if you left. But he’s got that look, eyes fixed on dead things here and in the past. 

“Yeah,” you answer, don’t offer anything else. 

“You should go,” he doesn’t bother to look at you, lights another cigarette and lets ash drop to the floor. 

“Yeah,” you say and go back into the living room, pick up your clothes. You’re out the door and zipping your fly as you cross his lawn, bare feet cold with dew. And you had things to say, maybe they were important but not really, not that it matters now. Maybe Rust will be in a talking mood tomorrow.


End file.
